Dangerous Edges
by Julia456
Summary: Sequel to "Status Quo". So she caught him, and kissed him, and with an impudent face said unto him, 'I have peace offerings with me...'
1. Anticlimax

Notes: Please read my story "Strays" before you read this… and also "Of the Rest of Your Life", "Lost and Found", "Visited" and "Status Quo".

I give you this advice for three reasons – a) "DE" makes sense all on its own, mostly, but there are some whopping big spoilers for those other stories, b) I think reading things in order is right and good, and c) I am happy to take this chance to shamelessly pimp out my other fics.

Whichever way you choose, enjoy. :)

With the exception of the very first, all of the chapter-header quote things are from Proverbs, beginning with 7:9.

_

* * *

---_

_Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things.  
The honest thief, the tender murderer,  
The superstitious atheist._

_Robert Browning_

_---_

…_in the twilight, in the evening,  
in the black and dark night.  
And, behold, there met him a woman  
with the attire of a harlot, and subtle of heart._

---

* * *

The first time he sees her, it's an anticlimax.

He's a full city block away, standing on the ledge that runs around the twentieth story of a distinguished old building, listening to the police band and prioritizing. There's no particular reason for him to be in this neighborhood – just the opposite, in fact; it looked like a quiet spot to stand and listen. A quiet spot to figure out where he's going next.

But his eyes keep scanning the city around him, out of habit and good sense. And he looks the right way at the right time, with his starlight lenses on, and he sees her.

At least, he sees _someone_. Someone with no business being on a roof in the middle of the night, someone dressed in dark colors with something slung over one shoulder. The distance and the darkness combine to obscure any real details. He isn't even certain it's a woman until she turns and he sees her figure in profile.

Up until this point, she existed only as a voice on an answering machine and the handwriting on a half-mocking card. He still has the recording he made of that voice, and he still has the card, in case he ever needs it for comparison. He has a list of police files that he suspects are examples of her work.

Now he has a visual to add to those tokens.

She doesn't see him, or else she chooses to ignore him, because she moves unselfconsciously on her path and vanishes from the roof within the next few moments.

By the time he reaches the spot where she was, less than half a minute later, there's no sign of her and the trail is already cold. She's a professional; she doesn't leave any evidence.

Four hours later, when the police report is filed, he learns what she was doing in that neighborhood: Stealing a Cezanne worth an estimated quarter of a million dollars from a poorly-secured law office.

He hates that he was so close and didn't prevent the crime, or recover the stolen painting, or confront her and determine whether or not she knows she pulled Superman's son out of that League of Shadows den.

That last question is very important. It'll have a considerable impact on how he handles her.

He tells himself that next time will be different.

It is.

But not the way he expects.


	2. Unexpected

Note: This chapter corresponds with my story "Status Quo".

* * *

---

The first time she sees him, it's unexpected.

All of it.

The job was already going bad – the second security guard was in the wrong place at the right time, and smart enough to hit the alarm before he confronted her. It isn't her fault; it's annoying just the same.

She knocks him out and grabs everything she can, no grace or style, not her idea of a fun time at all. She makes it onto the roof fast enough, she knows, to avoid the four-minute average response time of the cops.

But not fast enough to avoid the Bat.

He lands on the roof's edge with a sweep of black wings and she quick-steps back, giving a sharp hiss of displeasure and anger.

She knew her life of anonymity was on borrowed time since that snafu with the kid and Holly; she knew the Batman would be the first on her trail; and she wants to make him sorry for terrorizing her protégé – but she doesn't need the complication tonight, not when she has buyers waiting for merchandise that's already a week overdue.

She weighs her options quickly and makes a break for it – sprints for the edge of the roof, knowing she has little hope of making it to the other side or of surviving the fifteen-story sheer drop, but just pissed-off and desperate enough to risk it anyway.

She plants her foot on the last inch of solid surface and pushes off hard. The bag in her hand immediately becomes an anchor, throws off her balance, tips her sideways toward the street. She has just a moment to think _This was phenomenally stupid_ and then something impacts her side and knocks her out of freefall.

Batman. He's on a line – has her around the waist – they swing back towards the building she just robbed -

- inertia and surprise yank the bag from her fingers; it plummets and she hears glass crunch and tires squeal and if some idiot motorist just ran over her score -

- they spin and slam into the mirrored glass surface – somewhere around the fifth – the fourth floor.

She doesn't wait. She leverages herself free of his grip and drops.

The fall's going to hurt. She knows that. And it does, but she let Holly sew cat ears onto her mask for a reason, and it's not because they're slimming. She lands okay and looks around for her bag.

In the street, two uniformed officers are getting out of their black-and-white, weapons drawn, looking up. Looking up from the dented hood and the black bag slumped in the street beside the vehicle.

Of course. Of course her loot landed on a cop car.

She hisses again, low and in her throat. Presses back into the shadows along the ground floor of the building. How many more obstacles will she have to dodge tonight?

Batman glides overhead and one of the cops yells, _"Don't shoot!"_

The cops lower their guns and one of them moves to investigate the black bag. _Her_ bag.

She hesitates half a heartbeat longer, then slips out into the street and goes around the back of the patrol car. Sneaks up behind the trigger-happy patrolman, who's still looking around for the Bat. She KO's him, takes his weapon, and uses it to "persuade" his partner to give her what she rightfully stole.

Then she slings the bag over her shoulder and hightails it into the night. Maybe, if she sticks to the ground, she can avoid the Bat…

The trouble with that line of thinking, though, is that the Gotham City Police Department is also on the ground, and it's important to remember that there are more cops than masked vigilantes in this town, especially now that the "shoot to kill" order on Batman has driven those poor pathetic copycats (copybats?) back into their basements.

She plays the odds and takes herself up to the rooftops again.

She gets almost two blocks before that black-winged shadow sweeps down in front of her. This time, in between her and the roof's edge.

"Give up," he says. His voice is harsh, rough, obviously put-on. He hasn't moved, but he dominates the space.

"Be gentle," she says, in her own false voice, dropping the pitch to a low velvet purr, hoping to provoke a reaction. "It's my first time."

He doesn't react.

She circles around cautiously, trying to put herself at a good angle for escape. But he moves with her. Blocking her. Not even really trying.

She could scream with frustration.

_If I can just **run**_, she thinks, _I can get away_.

His suit is built for fight, not flight; it's heavy, he's got all that gear. _Her_ suit, however, is designed for stealth, for craft, for quick exits. And she's intimately familiar with this neighborhood.

She knows she can outrun him. The black bag in her hand is the only thing that might slow her down.

The black bag in her hand is the only thing that's trapping her on this roof, facing this man.

She hisses. She has to make a choice: Payday – or freedom.

Her grip tightens.

"Give me the bag," he says.

"Go fetch," she says abruptly, snarling it. She pirouettes and throws the bag at his face. He catches it, but in the half-second of distraction she darts across the distance between them and attacks.

The bag falls to the rooftop, spilling open – in her peripheral vision she catches the wink and sparkle of the jewels –

- he blocks a strike and she has to move fast to dodge the return -

- a helicopter thwaps by a block away, police searchlight flicking around hopelessly -

- her haul all over the roof now - _damn_ that cop -

- she steps in close, angles her hip, trying for a throw – leverage, it's all about leverage with a stronger opponent – but he catches her leg and pulls her into the fall with him.

He gets her in a pin, pressing her down against the gravel, using his weight and size against her. She manages to pull one hand free. Slashes at his face.

He doesn't expect the claws.

Only one fingertip really connects, but it's enough. His hold breaks. She gets up and runs, fleet and dark and silent, towards her continued freedom.

But she has to leave the bag behind.

Now, she thinks - now she has _two_ reasons to get even.

It takes her a while, laying false trails and staying low to keep out of sight, but eventually she gets home.

First things first: she greets her cat, who sniffs her gloves and purrs.

Then she strips off her gloves, her suit, her mask and goggles, and takes a look at herself in the bathroom mirror. The woman she sees doesn't look furious or frustrated at the loss of a night's hard work and a missed opportunity for revenge.

No. She looks excited.

Eyes sparkling. Grinning like a fool.

Exhilarated by the run and the fight and the overwhelming _presence_ of the man who was trying to capture her.

She can't wait until the next time.


	3. Prey

…_now is she without, now in the streets,  
and lieth in wait at every corner._

---

The second time she sees him, it's as the predator, not the prey.

Granted, she had fun facing off against the Bat. But she doesn't like being known. She doesn't like her work being interrupted or threatened, no matter how enjoyable the interruption might be. She's not stupid or obsessive; the Bat is bad for her profit margin and life would be easier without him sleuthing around after her.

So she decides to find out more about him.

Not his true identity. It's all the papers and the people on the street can talk about, but she could hardly care less; knowing who's under the mask is not as important as knowing how to keep him out of her hair.

No, she wants to learn how he operates, his patterns, his blind spots, the same way she learns about any on-the-job hazard.

As far as she's concerned, he's just a guard dog in body armor and a cape. Just a frighteningly efficient security system.

And she can disarm any security system that she damn well wants to.

She spends a few nights roaming the rooftops, trying to determine where in the concrete canyons of Gotham he might be. She listens to the police band and compares what she heard to the next day's reports of Batman sightings, looking for a pattern of response.

In the end, matters are simplified for her when the LoBoys and Street Demonz go to war. Suddenly ninety percent of the Bat sightings are coming from within the same sixteen square blocks, and all she has to do is find a vantage point where she's at minimal risk of taking a stray gang bullet.

It's fun in its own way – waiting, following, watching him pummel gangbangers. Enough to keep her entertained for a few nights. Before she can get bored, the war starts dying down almost as fast as it blew up, thanks to Bat pressure. Tonight will probably be the last night for easy stalking.

Tonight she doesn't wait long. After an hour he glides through the neighborhood, right past her observation post, intent on some unknown goal.

She takes off after him, running across the roofs in his wake, leaping, jumping, darkly thrilled as always at the idea of hunting the hunter. She can't stay even with him, of course – he's flying, she's not – but she wants to hang back anyway, to avoid being noticed.

He drops out of sight and she stops, trying to figure out where he's gone. A flicker of shadow against shadow on the roof of a building further down the block. That looks like him.

Gunfire starts.

A satisfied grin flits over her face. And that _sounds_ like him.

By the time she crosses the distance and finds a safe spot, curled up in the lee of an air-conditioner unit, the fight has spilled out into the alley beside the residential apartment where it began.

She watches the Batman dismantle the cadre of bodyguards attempting – futilely – to prevent him from dragging off their leader.

It's not much of a challenge for him and she admires that. Admires the strength and skill and, yes, the grace, although "grace" is an odd word to apply to someone brutally subduing gangbangers. She remembers the rumor floated by GCN, that he dismantled an entire SWAT team along with Joker's thugs. She believes it. Watching him, it's impossible not to.

Then more LoBoys show up. A lot more, spilling out of the apartment building and running in from the street. Twenty at least.

They're all armed and suddenly the thundering staccato of gunfire picks up again. Suddenly Batman has his hands full.

She has to hold herself in place. He's got body armor, he's got weapons. During her nights stalking, she's watched him take out larger swarms than this.

_Why am I so worried?_ she wonders briefly, but doesn't like where that train of thought leads and stops.

Movement on the fire escape directly below her makes her refocus her attention away from the main fight.

One of the LoBoys – a skinny kid in an oversized hoodie – has had a brilliant idea: Instead of rushing the alley with all of his friends, he's climbed out onto the fire escape with his handgun, where he'll have an unobstructed line-of-sight to Batman's head.

And Batman is so distracted by the fifteen other people trying to kill him that this junior rocket scientist may just succeed.

She considers letting him pull the trigger. That would get the Bat out of her business, permanently. Logically, she should help the kid aim and give him a hearty "attaboy!" when he's done.

He checks the magazine – this kid's pretty sharp – and then gets ready to take his shot.

She hops over the edge of the roof, lands on the fire escape beside him, and knocks the gun out of his hand. Brings her elbow against the side of his head. Brings her knee up sharply between his legs. He makes a strangled noise and hunches over. She grabs a handful of hoodie, forces him up, and hisses, "Sorry, junior - I like him better breathing."

It's the truth – vendetta for Holly or not.

She likes the Batman alive.

She likes him alive and interfering.

She _wants_ him alive and interfering.

It's inexplicable and contradictory... but she let Holly sew those cat ears onto her costume for a reason.

The kid groans. She lets him drop, tired of it already, and returns to her post on the roof. How Batman can do this every night is another mystery.

The noise suddenly slackens. She looks down in the alley and sees that fifteen-to-one have proven to be lousy odds for the LoBoys. She doesn't think three-to-one will work any better, but the last few LoBoys are giving it their best try.

She watches from the shadows of the rooftop as the fight ends exactly the way she predicted.

The news announces the end of the gang war the next morning, with several LoBoy leaders under arrest – courtesy, no one will say, of the Bat, who is now burdened with an inactive underworld.

She starts planning her next job.


	4. Almost

The third time she sees him, it's almost a disaster.

The Museum of Natural History is hosting a traveling exhibit of ancient Egyptian treasures. Wonderful old things – statues, jewelry, cups, bowls, tools, wigs, mummies, you name it – with wonderfully large price tags attached.

She wanders around during visitors' hours with a mental shopping list, looking for the items her buyers will be interested in. For high-end thefts like this, you want a client lined up ahead of time. The antiquities black market is a little more forgiving than that of art or even jewelry, but she prefers not to take the risk without the guarantee of a reward.

Browsing turns up four necklaces, several rings and bracelets, and a little statuette of Sekhmet in pink granite to keep for herself. Expensive, small, eminently portable; yes, those will do quite nicely.

After the museum closes for the night, she returns, slipping through the gaping cracks in the security measures with practiced ease.

It's been just over two months or so since her last job, but this one is very different than raiding a jewelry store – or, for that matter, burglarizing a rich fool's penthouse. She wonders if Batman will find her.

If he doesn't, just as well. She could certainly use the proceeds from this job, and she certainly can't afford to piss off any more clients.

If he does, on the other hand…

If he does, this is going to be _fun_.

She'd never admit it, but her heists have been getting stale. The Bat's presence – the unknown challenge of it – is waking up all her old instinctive fire. She remembers how he looked, fighting the LoBoys, how he blocked her strikes the night of the botched jewelry heist, how he pinned her against the rooftop.

Oh, yes. _Fire_ is a very apt word.

She feels like rushing the job, but suppresses that urge and works as carefully and methodically as ever. She's a professional, and she takes pride in the subtlety, the _invisibility_, of her work. She ran jobs in Gotham for five years, unnoticed by the mob and the cops, before an altruistic act (_there's a lesson there_, she thinks, wry) flashed her into the Bat's awareness.

No reason to get sloppy on this job just because she's impatient for the epilogue.

She packs the jewelry and statuette into a snugly cushioned case, stows it, and heads for the roof.

She's planned ahead for this one, and she's not going to get caught out with another big black bag. Nothing the Bat can strip from her in the middle of a fight… although, if it weren't for the lost profits, she isn't so sure that she wouldn't mind.

When she emerges onto the roof he's already there, black on black in the nighttime city.

"Meow," she says, making fun of him whether he knows it or not. "Ready for another round, lover?"

Disappointingly, all he says is, "Give me the bag," in the same growled tones as their first encounter. Then he adds, "No tricks."

"No fun," she says, all mocking velvet. She sighs as if it pains her, then stretches up to remove the small backpack slung over her shoulder. He watches her, posture wary, but she moves slowly and carefully, holding the backpack out, letting it dangle from her fingers. "Come and get it."

He waits a beat. She draws her arm in, winking at him. He moves towards her and she steps away from him, teasing, until they're both in the right places.

Then she drops the backpack and, in the same motion, pulls out the only thing inside it: A whip.

It's not a great weapon - theatrical, worthless against guns – but he doesn't use guns – and aren't they the definition of _theatrical_ at this point anyway? Cat and Bat, striking sparks on the rooftops? Might as well enjoy it -

Grab the handle. Uncoil. Once around and – _crack!_ The leather tip moves faster than the speed of sound and catches him across his chest. He grunts and staggers back. She brings the whip around again and tears a jagged rent in his cape. He's off-balance.

She loops the whip over her shoulder and runs.

This was always a possibility – she was hoping for it, after all – and she made a plan. She learned from her first encounter, from watching the doomed street gangs, from the paralyzing weeks the Joker was tearing the city apart; you can't rely on traditional methods and win against Batman.

You can't use guns. You can't use force. You have to do the unexpected and unconventional. The second it becomes a standard fight is the second you lose.

And she's not going to lose tonight. She's not going to lose - to him - ever again.

She comes to the end of a block and stops, but not because of the too-wide gap made by the elevated rail line below. She pulls down her glove to check her watch and sees what she expected to see: It's too early. She'll have to stall.

He lands behind her and she turns.

"Don't you owe me a favor?" she asks, feigning desperation. "Small, helpless, allergic to green rocks?"

"No," he says.

She makes a disappointed noise. "Maybe I'll move to Metropolis."

He moves abruptly – faster than she can raise the whip, faster than she was expecting – and grabs her by the wrist. It's painful and she hisses.

"Where is it?"

"You're hurting me," she snarls, looking pointedly at her wrist until he (grudgingly, it looks) loosens his grip. "Where is _what?_"

He forces her to walk forward a step, moving her away from the edge. "What you stole tonight."

She grins, running her tongue over the edge of her teeth, over her lips. Sways towards him, making him lean back. "Somewhere _you_ can't find it."

The elevated train rumbles in the near distance.

"That's my cue, handsome," she purrs, leaning closer so she can break his hold. She kicks him in the abdomen, then jumps over the roof edge. Swings down onto the line she prepared earlier. Uses her claws to sever it from its anchoring point on the bricks.

She sweeps down and lets go just as the train thunders past beneath her. Lands on the last car, but doesn't try to keep her balance. Instead she rolls with the impact and the speed, buries the razor-tipped claws on her right hand into the metal of the train with desperate strength -

The muscles of her arm and shoulder light up with white-hot pain -

- inertia and the force of the airflow bounce her towards the edge - just chaos and a deafening roar of wind -

She gets her feet braced against something. Digs her claws deeper. Pulls herself into a shaky crouch two heartbeats away from death. Breathes in despite the wind whipping past her.

Insane. That was _insane_. But if it worked...

She looks over her shoulder at the swiftly receding building.

Batman's standing on the edge of the roof with his torn, useless cape, watching her.

She waves and blows him a kiss, laughing, exhilarated, victorious.

In the morning, she goes back to the museum as a civilian visitor. The Egyptian exhibit is police-taped off and cops are standing around, taking pictures and talking. Trying to figure out whodunit and how.

_Good luck_, she thinks irreverently. She walks right past them without turning a hair and retrieves the case from where she stashed it last night – inside the women's restroom.

The newspapers report that the cops are calling her _"Catwoman"_.

She approves.


	5. Gray

_So she caught him, and kissed him,  
and with an impudent face said unto him,  
I have peace offerings with me…_

---

The fifth time he sees her, it costs him dearly.

Not money. Something else.

His principles.

The fifth time, he finds himself bending the rules that govern this part of his life, and it leaves him simultaneously frustrated and alarmed. Ra's al Ghul wanted to wipe the city clean. The Joker wanted to fill it with chaos. Catwoman…

He's not sure what her goal is.

She followed him for the better part of a week and saved his life against the LoBoys – he saw her disarming a shooter – but then staged a major heist and a wild escape, defiantly, mockingly, in his full view.

She knows about Jason White's connection to Superman – flaunted the knowledge – but hasn't used it.

He doesn't know what to do about her. He doesn't know her goal. He doesn't think it has anything to do with the city at large. He suspects that she's just toying with him, that she's going to make him pay for finding her out, for running off her accomplice, Holly Robinson.

He does know it's not a game he can afford to play. He tells himself that he needs to be careful; more careful than he has been, at any rate. She's not crazy, not obsessed - not any more than he is. She's smart. Calculating. Daring.

Dangerous.

He needs to take her off the streets. Take her out of the equation. He can't let her get the drop on him again.

There's a new exhibit of rare gems at the Museum of Natural History, including several spectacular examples of chatoyancy: Cat's-eye stones. After the theft a month earlier, and having a better feel for her winking sense of humor, he takes no chances and monitors the museum closely.

On the second night of the exhibit, he finds her perched on a rooftop across the street. He considers waiting for her to make a move on the museum so that he can catch her red-handed, but after a few minutes of observation it becomes clear that she's not going to do anything anytime soon.

He decides to confront her and lands silently on the roof, out of her field of vision.

She turns her head slightly, enough for him to see the curve of her jaw and neck, the small rounded ears on top of her mask, the deep purple sheen, almost black, to her leather suit. "You can't sneak up on a cat," she says in that low purring voice.

It's a false voice, as false as the one he puts on with his mask and cape. But his is designed to intimidate, and hers is... not.

He says nothing, but he moves closer.

She turns all the way around, leaning back against the decorative crenellation at the roof's edge. Lounging – or so it seems. "Relax. I'm not going to steal anything tonight, handsome."

"Then why are you here?"

"Mm... you're not in the phone book." She eases off the stonework and takes a few slow, sauntering steps towards him. He tenses and shifts, ready to fight if needed. But she only smiles and stops just out of arm's reach. "I'll be good," she says, teasing. "Honest."

He doesn't believe her. "What do you want?"

"To give you this," she says. She reaches up to the circular tab at her neck and unzips the front of her suit – slowly, eyes sparking with mischief behind the lenses of her goggles, watching for his reaction – showing a long blaze of pale skin against the dark leather.

She slides one hand inside, pulling out a dull green chunk of rock, then holds it up with three fingers. "Found it under the Little Blue Boy Scout's pillow. I was going to keep it, but…"

She shrugs, slipping the kryptonite back into her suit and zipping it closed again.

"That's not giving it to me," he says. It earns him a new smile, this one appreciative, and he makes a note to keep comments like those to himself.

"Two hundred grams," she says idly. "On the market, it's worth… what?"

Two hundred grams of kryptonite is a blank check. It's priceless. Individuals will pay millions. Organizations, including certain governments, will pay billions. She could sell the rock within hours and retire in fabulous wealth.

He says nothing.

She moves in closer. He holds still and ready and lets her. But she only lifts one hand and runs her fingers over the bat design on his chest, then digs the tips of those claws in. Stretches up and leans in and purrs, "So make me an offer."

He can't feel her hand through the layers of armor and Kevlar and fabric. He can, however, feel the warmth of her breath on the skin below the edge of his mask. And he can smell her perfume, the musky leather of her suit. See the way her lips part.

"I'm not playing games," he says, cold.

She tilts her head and her lips curve up in a faint smile. "Aw," she says. "Don't make this business. You can't afford it."

He says nothing.

"C'mon, _Batman_," she says, putting a little mocking twist on the name. She runs her free hand up his arm and curves it around his shoulder, pressing closer still. The claws digging into his suit pry clear and rake lightly downward, hooking onto the belt instead.

He should separate them. He can. One quick move will propel her away, out of striking distance.

So then – why hasn't he?

Because she has two hundred grams of kryptonite. Because she saved his life against the LoBoys. Because she plucked a stranger's son out of hell.

And because he can feel her warm breath on the skin of his face, and he can smell her perfume, and his hands are curling into fists at his side against the temptation to touch her.

"No," he says.

Her smile stretches out and she brings her face next to his again, brushing skin against skin. Her lips move on his jaw as she says, barely audible, a ghost of sound whispered across his mask, "Play with me."

He turns his head fractionally. Her breath hitches and the arm around his shoulders tightens, and he balances on the half-second impulse to move another centimeter and find out what she tastes like.

_Play with me._

But it's not a game.

He should take advantage of the moment and remove the kryptonite by force. He should cuff her and leave her for the Major Crimes Unit. A housewarming gift for Montoya, the new detective there.

He can. He should.

She makes an impatient noise and shifts position. Presses her mouth against the edge of his – and then it's too much, he tips over that edge of self-control, and he kisses her.

He reaches between them to the circular tab of her zipper. Tugs it down. She leans back slightly with a laugh, giving him space, curving one strong leg around his to hold her balance, running her tongue along his jaw before capturing his mouth again.

He slides his hand inside her suit, feeling smooth skin and soft round curves even through the thick palms of his gloves, feeling the heat trapped between the two of them, and closes his fingers around the green rock.

Bending the rules. Doing something he shouldn't.

He knows better, especially after the Joker. He does not negotiate with criminals. He does not do as they ask. He does not play their games. There's no gray area here – only black and white – and she's proven, more than once, that she's on the wrong side of that dividing line.

_Play with me._

But he thinks he knows this game: First the seduction, then the claws.

For a long perilous moment he stays where he is, kissing her, lost in the dark urgent thrill of it, the unreality of it.

Then he thinks, _Rachel_. And it becomes crashingly real.

He brings his arm up and shifts his weight on his feet and sends her staggering backwards. She catches her balance quickly and stands there, poised and elegant despite the deep V of skin exposed to the night.

The three-month-old scar on his jaw twinges.

He expects claws. He expects further seduction.

He gets neither.

"Better," she says, dark amusement dancing in her voice and across her face. She tugs the zipper closed again, almost primly. "Tell Big Blue I said 'you're welcome.' "

She blows him a kiss.

She turns.

She runs to the edge of the roof and jumps.

Batman stays where he is for a long moment, then puts the kryptonite away in his belt and leaves.

Catwoman is a problem – a larger one, in her way, than the Joker or Ra's al Ghul ever were. She's a gray area. She's… a distraction.

A temptation.

_Play with me._

He doesn't know what he's going to do about her.

But he tells himself that next time will be different.

**---end---**


End file.
